


Notions

by chaineddove



Series: Disconnect-verse [2]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, walking away seems an even worse idea than staying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Disconnect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/351091) by [stillskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/pseuds/stillskies). 



> I was prompted months ago by stillskies for a cuddle fic. I'm sorry it's late, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Yeong-ha will be the first to admit that he isn’t much in the habit of sleeping with anyone. Oh, he spends his share of time between the sheets, on couches, against shower walls, on living room rugs, and the like – but the idea of the vulnerability of sharing a blanket and falling asleep, of awakening with pillow wrinkles on his face and tousled, messy hair… no. It isn’t at all his style. Not to mention that people who wake up with him tend to get all manner of ridiculous ideas in their heads, and then disabusing them of their notions of romance takes months and months of time that could be better spent studying baduk, riling up his rivals, or even drinking tea (Yeong-ha is quite fond of tea; he is not at all fond of people who don’t seem to understand the concept of, “That was fun; now get lost.”).

Yashiro Kiyoharu 8-dan sprawls. He takes up most of the bed, flinging one leg over Yeong-ha’s middle and pressing awkwardly against his bladder. He sleeps with his mouth open, breathing noisily, almost-but-not-quite snoring. His arm lies heavy against Yeong-ha’s chest, calloused fingers light against his ribs. The mattress is softer than Yeong-ha likes, and with two people in the narrow bed, the blanket is too thick. The room is stuffy, and Yeong-ha feels… pretty good. A little warm, a little awkward. As he catalogues these feelings, maybe a little frightened.

He’s been in this room before. It is like its owner – deceptive, not at all what he thought it would be. The furniture is simple and mismatched; the walls are empty save for one poster of some punk band in black leather jackets; there is no mirror and there are no photographs. The bedspread is black and the sheets are white; it is clear that whoever bought them knows next to nothing about thread count. Yeong-ha lies there, thinking about these things and thinking about the man who sleeps here, in a place bare of luxury and devoid of color. The room is a blank canvas giving nothing of its owner away; the man is an enigma of sorts. Yeong-ha has rarely been able to resist an enigma.

He eases himself out of bed and walks softly to the bathroom – white tile and chrome, the sink holds nothing but a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a razor. The small, square mirror is clean; in it, Yeong-ha sees himself, hair tousled across his forehead, eyes narrowed against the light of the single bulb, a livid purple bite mark coming in at the base of his neck. He thinks then of leaving, of throwing on his clothes, slipping on his shoes, and disappearing into the night. He could call a taxi. He’s called so many taxis in his life. If he’s honest, he thinks he maybe _should_ call a taxi. There is an empty hotel room waiting for him not fifteen kilometers down the road, with a large, empty bed, a snug down comforter, a pile of pillows, and his peace of mind. He doesn’t know what he is looking for, but it is not here, in this sparse bathroom of this sparse apartment with the absurd bright yellow couch and lovingly polished goban sharing center stage in the living room.

Somehow, walking away seems an even worse idea than staying.

He turns out the light, blinks a few times to adjust to the darkness, and returns to the bedroom. Yashiro’s jaw is slack in sleep, his hair flattened on one side. Yeong-ha feels something stir inside him – not desire, not annoyance, not anything he can identify – and again thinks that the taxi is really the wise choice. He imagines leaving a note, breezy platitudes he has offered to so many lovers – _Thanks for the good time, have to run, I’ll call you sometime_ – but the thought rings hollow, though he is all but certain that this is precisely what is expected of him in these circumstances. No, Yashiro 8-dan cannot possibly expect him to stay until morning; Yashiro 8-dan can’t even be bothered to share his narrow bed, probably because the man isn’t any more used to sleeping next to someone than Yeong-ha is (he is not the type, Yeong-ha has realized, to get notions, or to let them go to his head; he no more expects someone to want to stay than Yeong-ha himself expects to get back into bed when there are dozens of perfectly serviceable taxis just a phone call away).

He is not usually so philosophical at – he checks the glowing green display of the bedside alarm clock – three-fifteen in the morning. And never about a lover.

But… he wants to be here, he realizes. In this too-small, too-bare, too-warm apartment with its yellow couch and cheap sheets and surly occupant. He wants to slide under the blanket and close his eyes and sleep, and in the morning, he thinks he might not entirely mind waking up tousled and disheveled, but not alone. The idea is thoroughly disconcerting.

The bed shifts under his weight. Yashiro mumbles something – it is in Japanese, and he has no idea whether it is _come back here,_ or _go die in a fire, you bastard,_ but he’ll take his chances. Yeong-ha throws his arm over Yashiro’s waist and settles his head on the very edge of the single pillow. He shifts to get comfortable; he supposes this will take some getting used to, this sleeping thing. His other arm is pinned awkwardly between their bodies and the bed seems too short for his legs and really, he thinks, what kind of person has only one pillow?

He doesn’t have notions of romance, he tells himself. But he wants to be here, right now, with this enigmatic, angry man who uses too much hair gel and fits against him in all of the right and most unexpected ways. This is not a notion. It is an experiment.

And maybe a beginning.


End file.
